Frustration
by ToryTigress92
Summary: AU of that scene in DMC, where Elizabeth is in Beckett's office. What if that year of sexual frustration, the firelight and the candlelight get the better of Elizabeth? Beckabeth fanfiction.


**Frustration**

_AU of that scene in Dead Man's Chest, where Elizabeth is in Beckett's office, and they're standing at the desk, with Beckett giving Elizabeth the letters of marque. What happened if that year of sexual frustration and the fire and candlelight got the better of Elizabeth?_

* * *

Elizabeth readied the pistol her father had given her, defiantly staring Beckett down as she emerged from the shadows.

"Ms Swann," Beckett said cordially, completely unruffled by Elizabeth's sudden appearance. She was a resourceful woman after all. Elizabeth however had no time for cordiality; particularly not for a man who had destroyed her wedding, imprisoned her fiancée, released said fiancée on a wild goose chase and held her to ransom. She flinched away from the subject of Will; she had to think about herself, to survive.

"These letters of Marque, they are signed by the King…." she began, holding the leather bound documents up, keeping the pistol hidden in her skirts.

"But not valid until they bear my signature and my seal," he finished for her, a smug smile on his face, those electric eyes boring into hers. Beckett turned, walking towards her purposefully.

"Otherwise, I would not still be here. You sent Will to get you the compass owned by Jack Sparrow. It will do you no good," she said triumphantly, raising the pistol, stopping Beckett from getting too close. She didn't like that look in his eye,

"Do explain," he barked, his imperturbable calm shaken. Did this girl know more than he did?

"I have been to Isla De Muerta; I have seen the treasure myself. There is something you need to know," she elaborated, half-snarling. Beckett's face eased, settling into a half-smile

"Ah I see. You think the compass points only to Isla de Muerta, and so you wish to save me from a horrific fate," he said sarcastically. Judging by the expression in Elizabeth's eyes, she wanted to do the job herself. Interesting… "I'm afraid you are mistaken, Miss Swann. I care not for cursed Aztec gold, my desires are not so provincial," with that cryptic remark, he turned to the massive painted map on the wall above the fireplace. He gestured to it, before whirling to face Elizabeth, intent sparking in his entrancing, arrogant eyes. "There's more than one chest of value in these waters,"

Elizabeth couldn't ignore the emphasis on the word, the meaning inherent in them. She narrowed her eyes, despite the glint in those eyes sending shivers down her spine. She would not start thinking about that slime like this now! He continued, stalking towards her like a jungle panther. He may have been only a few inches taller than herself, but the self-assurance and arrogance inherent in his mien gave him a presence beyond words. She managed to snap back to reality, his words sending tingles of anger and desire through her body.

* * *

"So perhaps you wish to enhance your offer…" at the words, Elizabeth brought her hand up, levelling the pistol at Beckett's head. She made him back away towards his desk, slamming the letters of Marque into his chest.

"Consider into your calculations that you robbed me of my wedding night," Elizabeth snarled, using her anger as a shield.

"So I did," he agreed, taking the letters from her submissively. His fingers brushed hers and she yanked them away, the burn of his touch unnerving her suddenly. He signed them, determined to plant a few more seeds to worm their way into her brain.

"You need not have a wasted night, Miss Swann," he flicked his blue eyes at her, sending her a blistering gaze. His eyes swept down her form appreciatively, the golden wedding gown displaying her sensual curves, her long sun-drenched brown hair, tumbling down from her elegant hairstyle of the morning. She was a beauty, and Turner was an idiot for abandoning her, no matter his motives.

"Excuse me?" she spluttered, the pistol wavering. He held his hand out for the pistol commandingly.

"Come, come now Miss Swann. This room is surrounded by guards, the one shot you have will alert them to your presence, and you will not be able to escape. So really you have no leverage over me anymore. Why not listen to my proposition?" he suggested, laying the letters of Marque down and drawing as close as the raised pistol would allow.

Elizabeth looked into his eyes and saw his 'proposal' stated very clearly in his eyes. She pulled the hammer back threateningly, eyes glaring. But….damn him he was right! And it was true; her body was thrumming with something which felt worryingly like desire.

_William…I'm sorry..._

* * *

Beckett's fingers beckoned, she slowly held the pistol out, replacing the hammer. He took it calmly, dropping it onto the desk, still within reach. His eyes were triumphant, irritatingly so as he moved away from the desk, to the tantalus on one side of the fireplace, pouring them both a glass of brandy. He proffered it cordially enough. Elizabeth walked gracefully forward to take it, ignoring the tremors of anticipation racking her spine. She had never drunk brandy before; she watched Beckett out of the corner of her eye, examined his technique. She took a sip, the fiery liquid burning a path down her throat. Beckett did the same, watching her closely.

"Come, sit by the fire. It becomes cold this deep into night" he observed gesturing to the two chairs before the merrily crackling flames.

Elizabeth hesitated, before turning about and sitting regally in one of the low-backed seats, relaxing into the softness of the cushion. She felt Beckett do the same beside her, his piercing eyes fixed on her face. She felt a blush rise, not dissimilar to the one she had felt when she had addressed him in the chapel, although at the time she had thought it from anger.

"Now wouldn't you like to hear my proposition?" Beckett asked. She sensed him shift, trying to meet her gaze, and she lowered her head, refusing to look at him.

"I think I know the nature of this proposition, my Lord," she said sarcastically. She gulped down the rest of her brandy, the alcohol making her head whirl. It steadied her a little, made her think about avenues of escape, until she felt his breath in her ear. She stiffened, sitting up straight, point-blank refusing to acknowledge the telltale ripples pulsing through her.

"It must have been very difficult, being so close to Turner and knowing you could not touch him," he whispered, his lips brushing the sensitive skin beneath her ear.

"I don't know what you mean," she asserted, twisting her face away from him. His hands curled over hers on the armrests, trapping her in the chair.

"The frustration for a woman like you, must have been…intense," he simply continued, knowing his words would just bring her closer to his arms.

"I am not a whore, Lord Beckett," she said coldly. "I don't know what game you are playing but it will not work on me,"

"The word never crossed my lips, Miss Swann. You are a woman of sensuality, Elizabeth. The two are remarkably different," he continued. The way he said her name sent seductive shivers coursing through her body. He may have lacked Will's tender edge, but the refined accent Will lacked, and Beckett possessed, turned the perfectly prim English word into something far more sensuous. She hadn't thought someone so ruthless could be so seductive.

Maybe the two went hand in hand.

Elizabeth's thoughts disappeared in a poof of metaphorical smoke, as Beckett moved her hair aside, running his lips up the side of her neck. His hands went around her waist, hugging her back against him through the chair, living restraints. She arched, gasping, suddenly desperate to stay, and desperate to get away. It was true, she had been so frustrated, so full of yearning, unfulfilled, that right now she was more open to seduction than she might have been.

But she was affianced; she couldn't give herself to any man but Will. No matter how much she desired it. But Beckett was speaking again in her ear, his masterful fingers gently torturing the underside of her brocade-covered breast. Teasing, inciting, evocative caresses, designed to drown her in a sea of desire.

"I can feel the need, the hidden passion stirring within you. Turner was a fool to leave you," he said suddenly. His hands traced upwards, to the line of her shoulders, displayed by her gown. His fingers created patterns on her skin, so her instinctive outrage was dampened by a burst of desire.

"But Will was forced to leave. **You **made him leave, by threatening to execute me! You have no right…" she began until his lips caressed the join of her shoulder to her neck, drifting upwards to the line of her jaw.

She wrenched her head away, standing in a flurry of silken skirts, anger pouring from her eyes. She whirled to face him, one hand raised to strike him, but she faltered under the intent in his face as he stalked towards her. He caught her wrist, holding it in a grip of iron; Elizabeth retreating into the wall beside the mantelpiece, her heart beating fast in panic.

"Why are you doing this?" she asked in a pleading, desperate whisper, tears filling her eyes. He slammed her into the wall in answer, Elizabeth gasped in pain and a strange, wild exhilaration.

"Because you want this as much as I do, Elizabeth," he whispered. And she did, too much, her body begging her to surrender and he hadn't even really touched her yet. But she had always been too wild to give in easily, too wilful by far.

He wanted her; he would have to earn her.

Thoughts of Will still plagued Elizabeth's mind, urging her to run, whilst her body was pushing her into Beckett's seductive embrace. But then any coherent thought was vanquished as Beckett pressed his lips to hers, holding her against the marble hearth. The heat from the fire pulsed up her body, lulling her senses.

_It's alright; you're strong, strong enough to stop this, in a few moments. Just a few more…._

Elizabeth's thoughts trailed off under the gentle onslaught of Beckett's mouth. She had expected fire, violence but this was gentle pleasure, reined passion. His mouth moved against hers, patient and alluring, waiting for her surrender. With a frustrated sigh, she gave in, returning the embrace, giving him back fire for seduction. She felt his control quake, as his hands tightened around her arms, momentarily taking her breath from her.

That flare of wildness intrigued Elizabeth, making her want to discover it again. Self-disgust filled her; she was thinking impure thoughts about a man who would quite indifferently send her to the gallows without so much as a blink! How did she know he didn't have an ulterior motive; he was East India Trading Company after all. She'd heard stories about them, their greed and ruthlessness, their utter tyranny over the lands they controlled, all in the name of the King of course. So what had happened to her? She needed to get out of there, needed to think…. But could she with her head spinning like a drunken pirate in a hurricane? The brandy, it had to be the brandy, going to her head, she hadn't thought she was that susceptible. _Oh god…._

Beckett's hands went around her waist, drawing her full against him, so she could feel his desire pressed against her stomach. The kiss unbroken, he stepped up his attack, the kiss becoming fiercer, more untamed, letting her see the wildness beneath the civilized façade, a match for her own. He lifted her against him, so her feet no longer touched the floor, then turned and tumbled down onto the carpet in front of the fire.

The flames struck golden glints from Elizabeth's hair as it splayed over the crimson carpet before the hearth. Beckett reflected that he had never seen anything so sensually beautiful as she, laid out like a glittering gem, on his rug by the fire. His to devour, his to tame. The thought prompted him to kiss her deeply, tilting her head back against the floor. She moaned, and he could tell it was against her will.

He broke the kiss to pin her arms to the floor, watching as passion began to fill her lovely eyes, the colours beginning to fracture under the sensual tide. He had never been so acutely aware of a woman before; the yielding form arching underneath his, the soft breasts pressed against his chest, the swollen lips open for him to conquer. He lifted his head, his blue eyes stormy now, surveying the prize he had captured. She gazed back up at him, pure abandon in her face. But slowly consciousness invested those perfect features, and she closed her eyes. Her hands wriggled from his grip and pushed against him, trying to sit up.

"No, no, no, no! I cannot do this, please don't make me," she pleaded; struggling against the yearning, the frustration making her body scream. Beckett sat up, releasing her, taken slightly off-guard by her pleading tone. Here was this wilful, headstrong young woman, who had fought in pirate battles and outfaced grotesque living skeletons, at the tender age of seventeen, and she was pleading with him, wanting him to believe he was forcing her to give herself to him? Not in this lifetime.

"Oh no, you won't get away with that so easily," he whispered, catching hold of her as she stood, and tried to turn away. He settled her in his lap, sitting before the fire, watching the jumping flames, so reminiscent of the flames rising between the two of them. Elizabeth ceased struggling, the heat of Beckett's body melting her muscles, reducing them to the consistency of a blancmange. His lips fastened on her throat, teasing the taut muscles, tongue flicking up and down against her skin. She flopped back against him, boneless, turning her head so her lips were close to his ear. Beckett's hands tightened around her body, one hand snaring hers and pressing it to her bodice, guiding it up her sternum until they reached her neck, caressing the soft skin at the base of her neck. She shifted, moaning, feeling the hard evidence of his desire pressed against her back. His breath hitched, his fingers released hers to wrap around her chin, turning her face to his. He stroked her hair, the soft waves falling on her cheek.

Elizabeth watched his fascination with her hair, touching it, stroking it tenderly, shivering, her lids falling. His gaze snapped back to her face, back to her aching lips. He breathed in shakily, trying to hold the reins of their interaction firmly in his grip. The evening had certainly gone further than expected… he looked into her eyes, and saw the hovering indecision still there, the uncertainty, besides the fiery desire and the prowling feline that waited to escape the chains of society. The remnants of her loyalty to William Turner. She was so nearly his….

He flicked the long golden brown curls over her shoulders, so her back and the fastenings of her gown were bare to his perusal. He loosened the laces, so the gown slid down her shoulders, to the top of her breasts. She clutched at the bodice, keeping it in place, but Beckett was satisfied. His lips lavished hot kisses over her upper back, over the shoulder blades, and down her spine. He stopped when he reached the top of her gown before retracing his steps upward, all the way to the nape of her neck. She arched, gasping through gritted teeth, struggling to fight. One hand slid beneath her bodice, cupping her breast, kneading the heavy flesh.

Elizabeth bit her lip, the pain jolting her from the sensual prison he had placed her in. Blood ran down her lip, she had bitten so hard. Her gasp of pain had Beckett pausing in his ministrations, turning her face to his once more. Her eyes glittered; her skin was flushed and swollen beneath his still stroking fingers. She leaned her head back, against his shoulder, relaxing into his arms, as they continued to stare into each other's eyes, trying to read the other's thoughts. Her gaze dropped to his lips, then to the small portion of skin revealed by his collar, and touched her lips to his neck, returning his pleasure with hers. His hand retreated from her breast, savouring the texture of her skin as he drew it upward, to her neck, cupping the side of her face. When she nipped his skin, his lids fell, a smothered groan of surprise escaping his mouth.

Elizabeth paused, looking up into his face, some small part amused by the thought that she could have this ruthless, domineering man on his knees. His jaw clenched, looking down at her seriously, stroking her neck.

"Why do you still resist, Elizabeth? You want this as much as I," he whispered against her lips, not quite kissing her but close to it. Elizabeth squirmed, trying to press her lips to his, but his hold on her refusing to allow her that licence. She had no choice but to look into his eyes. "We are so similar, you and I, both doing what we must to survive," he continued. Elizabeth's eyes narrowed.

"We are nothing alike, Lord Beckett. I would never do the things you have done. There some lines I will never cross," she spat, trying to move away from him. How dare he liken her to him! She was nothing like him, she was not ruthless or cold-hearted like he! But was he so cold-hearted? There was nothing cold in the gaze that arrested hers, the hands holding her body in thrall, the lips shedding his warm breath over her face.

"Then why are you still here?" he whispered, leaning in seductively. Elizabeth opened her mouth to answer that she had no idea, when he took her mouth savagely, tongue instantly twining with hers. She froze, surprised, then adjusted to the new pleasure and reciprocated it whole-heartedly. His hands released her face to slide into her hair, pulling the strands from the remnants of her topknot of the morning, feeling them falling through his fingers. Elizabeth, dizzy from lack of oxygen, fell even more spinelessly against him, her lips as urgent as his, wiping coherent thought away.

With a gasp of surprise, she felt him sweep her up in his arms, their kiss unbroken. She was barely aware of him moving through a small doorway into an airy bedchamber, the windows shut and the insect nets down.

The air was unbelievably stuffy, another fire crackling in the hearth in front of the bed. He carried her over to the bed, all cool white linen and comfortable pillows. He propped her up on the side, hands reaching around her to finish unlacing the fastenings of her gown. She shrugged her shoulders, the gown falling down at the movement, revealing her silk shift, light enough for the Caribbean nights. She supported herself on her hands, as he whisked the gown off, pulling him to her with a frantic urgency, kissing him passionately. His hands clutched her waist as she fumbled with the buttons of his waistcoat, pulling the halves apart, running her fingers up the surprisingly well-muscled torso delightedly.

She felt Beckett's breath catch as his hands braced around her arms and pushed her back, sending her sprawling amid the covers and pillows. Her hands reached for him entreatingly, Beckett taking in the sight of Elizabeth Swann, arching wantonly beneath his gaze, skin flushed and urgent. Her eyes glittered, one leg bent, her sensuous body, designed to be worshipped by a man, displayed so provocatively before him. He pulled off his waistcoat, tearing the cravat away, pulling his boots off before going down on one knee between her legs, slowly, his gaze never leaving hers, pressing his body down onto hers. She gasped and arched, hands branding the small of his back, urgently pressing him down onto her. She cupped his nape, pulling his lips to hers in a frantic kiss, hands gliding into his hair. His hands swept under her back, sweeping lower, holding her to him. Their mouths still joined, she released his hair, her fingers going to the laces holding the front of her chemise closed, undoing them quickly. They only reached down to the bottom of her ribs, she sighed through their kiss. She tore at the buttons of his lawn shirt, pulling it open, crying out in satisfaction when his heated skin pressed against hers as he took a shaky breath. His lips wrenched from hers to place a series of kisses down her neck, one hand wrapping around the taut column, keeping her head still while he ravished her.

Elizabeth bent her head back into the pillows, her breathing accelerating as he moved lower, covering her collarbone and breasts with open-mouthed kisses, warm and wet. One hand dragged down her chemise, flinging it away. She pulled off his shirt, sending it to join her chemise. His hands stroked down her legs, nails rasping against her skin as he drew down her stockings, lips returning to hers to kiss them wildly. She only just realised he was as naked as she, when his hair roughened legs settled between her legs. She sucked in an unsteady breath, freezing when his fingers trailed down her body. She arched desperately, the new pleasure he was inflicting upon her, preparing her for his possession, lit fires beneath her skin. She bit her lower lip, head bent back, eyes closed in passionate abandon.

"Cutler…." She whispered, fingers beckoning yearningly. She wanted him, and as the fire built within her from his ministrations, the urgency mounted to a fever pitch. At last he surged over her, pushing deep into her core, into her soul. The slight resistance was swept away, leaving Elizabeth gasping in pain, as he stilled, lips taking hers in another seductive, though less savage kiss, intoxicating, distracting her from his invasion.

As he moved upon her, she relaxed, legs wrapping around him instinctively as he made love to her, worshipping her body with his own. His stormy blue eyes bored down into hers, intent on watching her as he set her free from frustration, working deeper inside her. Turner was indeed a fool. He could have had this, but instead had left his prize vulnerable to him. The last coherent thought in his brain was wiped away by the siren beneath him, awakening to his passion, his body flexing into hers. He felt a possessive surge, such as he felt when he wanted something, and he attained it. She was his now, given freely albeit with a little persuasion. His siren. He would never let her escape him, no matter how much she might want to….

He took her mouth in a searing, possessive kiss, their bodies pressed together as one.

* * *

Elizabeth awoke cold and shivering in the bed beside Beckett. The fire had gone out, and she slipped from his arms silently.

She stole across the room to where her clothes lay in a pile, discarded hurriedly as they where last night. She slipped into them quietly, barely making any sound on the parquet floor, walking around as effortlessly as a prima ballerina on tiptoes. The last thing she wanted was Beckett waking up before she was gone from the offices. She laced up her gown, fingers trembling at the knots as she turned to face the bed, Beckett still in the same position he had been for the past few moments.

Sleeping peacefully, his brow devoid of any sign of whatever plots and schemes interrupted his daily equilibrium. She watched him miserably, a longing expression in her eyes, before she turned and left the bedchamber, stealing silently down the short corridor to the office where she and Beckett had made their 'deal'. Self-loathing filled her for a moment; she had behaved like a common whore, giving herself so easily to a man like that. Her spine bowed for a moment, before it snapped erect, proud and regal as was her wont. She squared her shoulders, refusing such thoughts to cloud her mind, and strode to the desk. There, the letters of Marque still lay, signed and sealed, now valid. She swiped them up, paused for a moment, hand hovering over the pistol before taking it decisively in her fist. A sound came from the bedchamber, and Elizabeth froze, her eyes wide and terrified, waiting in suspense like a cornered tigress.

Silence reigned once more, and she breathed out a sigh of relief. She glanced at the sky outside, and saw it lightening, the morning birds already beginning their sunrise arias, chirping sweetly. Cries and oaths came from the dockyard outside, men already at work in Port Royal.

Surely it would not be hard to slip into one of the crews, change her attire, and find Will and Jack Sparrow, before Beckett found her. She had no doubt he would hunt her down to the ends of the earth.

There had been something possessive in his touch last night, in his kiss, in the way he had pulled her to him before they had succumbed to exhaustion. She flinched away from memories of that night, mentally tucking them into a drawer, never to be perused. She turned towards the open window and disappeared into the fog of the early morning.

* * *

_Anyway so that's my Beckabeth fanfic, hope you like it and I am thinking of writing a sequel called My Siren, basically using the events of Dead Man's Chest and At World's End. Anyway please R&R and tell me what you think. Constructive criticism only please!_


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